Andrew McEwan's Blog: Words Are the Gravy On the Mashed Potato of Life - Posts Tagged "robot"
Timmy the Tumour
After two weeks in limbo I finally get to see an oncologist this week. Said doctor will outline my coming chemotherapy, two cycles of which I will have over a period of six weeks. Roughly five weeks after that (July) I will have surgery to remove a tumour from my osophagus.
I was diagnosed with cancer on March 12th. It wasn't a total surprise. You don't get referred to 'a team of specialists' at a major hospital for no reason, although the guy who carried out my endoscopy spoke only of scarring and ulceration and his 'concern'. It's a consultant's job to deliver the bad news. My arse was barely on a waiting room chair a minute before a nurse took me to be weighed. Another minute seated and I was ushered into a consulation room and left alone for ten minutes listening to mumbled voices through the wall. Then came the handshake, followed by a frenetic fortnight of tests, a CT scan, more tests, endless needles in my arms, swabs, ECGs and finally a PET scan, where they inject you with radioactivity and instruct you not to move for thirty minutes. All this is free of course. It's called the NHS and it's a marvel. I'm lucky enough to live in the north east of England. The Royal Victoria Hospital, along with the Freeman Hospital, have taken very good care for me. In the near future the latter will shoot me up with drugs and the former cut me open, and I'll be extremely grateful. Cancer care in this region is amongst the best in Europe and my plan is to welcome it with open arms.
The chemo is to shrink the tumour and knock out any lurking bad cells on a micro level. My tumour measures about four centimetres but hasn't spread, so the prognosis is good. I should be okay. This is a curative scenario. The surgery will involve using part of my stomach to fill the gap left by removing the affected area of my osophagus, thus shrinking it somewhat, having first opened my chest and deflated a lung. There will be tubes coming out of me I'm told, but I won't complain. And yes, I have given the tumour a name. It's personal.
Timothy is a psychotic robot in the book I'm currently writing, THUMP vol. 2. Volume 1 is available to download/buy; also currently the subject of a Goodreads giveaway, six PB copies up for grabs to anyone in the UK. I went global with my last giveaway but this cost me a fortune and the retruns weren't great, and frankly I'm skint, although Smashwords did just pay me $28.
To conclude. I'm not dead yet. What more can you ask, eh?
Buy a book!
I was diagnosed with cancer on March 12th. It wasn't a total surprise. You don't get referred to 'a team of specialists' at a major hospital for no reason, although the guy who carried out my endoscopy spoke only of scarring and ulceration and his 'concern'. It's a consultant's job to deliver the bad news. My arse was barely on a waiting room chair a minute before a nurse took me to be weighed. Another minute seated and I was ushered into a consulation room and left alone for ten minutes listening to mumbled voices through the wall. Then came the handshake, followed by a frenetic fortnight of tests, a CT scan, more tests, endless needles in my arms, swabs, ECGs and finally a PET scan, where they inject you with radioactivity and instruct you not to move for thirty minutes. All this is free of course. It's called the NHS and it's a marvel. I'm lucky enough to live in the north east of England. The Royal Victoria Hospital, along with the Freeman Hospital, have taken very good care for me. In the near future the latter will shoot me up with drugs and the former cut me open, and I'll be extremely grateful. Cancer care in this region is amongst the best in Europe and my plan is to welcome it with open arms.
The chemo is to shrink the tumour and knock out any lurking bad cells on a micro level. My tumour measures about four centimetres but hasn't spread, so the prognosis is good. I should be okay. This is a curative scenario. The surgery will involve using part of my stomach to fill the gap left by removing the affected area of my osophagus, thus shrinking it somewhat, having first opened my chest and deflated a lung. There will be tubes coming out of me I'm told, but I won't complain. And yes, I have given the tumour a name. It's personal.
Timothy is a psychotic robot in the book I'm currently writing, THUMP vol. 2. Volume 1 is available to download/buy; also currently the subject of a Goodreads giveaway, six PB copies up for grabs to anyone in the UK. I went global with my last giveaway but this cost me a fortune and the retruns weren't great, and frankly I'm skint, although Smashwords did just pay me $28.
To conclude. I'm not dead yet. What more can you ask, eh?
Buy a book!
The Mechanical Universe
Cause and effect. Everything has consequences. The stars are alive and so are you.
I'm about finished a novel called Spare Parts For Spaceships, which is about a man who might be a robot, or vice versa. Two thirds of it is in fact Thump, the second volume of which never met its resolution and thenceforth (after much delay, a visit from the cancer fairy etc.) decided it was going no farther. The new title is in fact the original one, dating back to 2000, when I was living in Birmingham and doing the first year of an English degree. That ended early, too! Whole other story. Ergo: I now have a MS of around 129k. Probably it will shrink a little, but hopefully not too much. What I'd like is for someone with a shred of nous, an open mind and a love of sci-fi to read it and let me know what they think. If this is you let me know.
My sink is blocked. I'm rapping a piece of wood off the pipe behind the fridge. So far physics isn't helping.
Onward.
I'm about finished a novel called Spare Parts For Spaceships, which is about a man who might be a robot, or vice versa. Two thirds of it is in fact Thump, the second volume of which never met its resolution and thenceforth (after much delay, a visit from the cancer fairy etc.) decided it was going no farther. The new title is in fact the original one, dating back to 2000, when I was living in Birmingham and doing the first year of an English degree. That ended early, too! Whole other story. Ergo: I now have a MS of around 129k. Probably it will shrink a little, but hopefully not too much. What I'd like is for someone with a shred of nous, an open mind and a love of sci-fi to read it and let me know what they think. If this is you let me know.
My sink is blocked. I'm rapping a piece of wood off the pipe behind the fridge. So far physics isn't helping.
Onward.
Words Are the Gravy On the Mashed Potato of Life
...there may be lumps in either or both.
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